Tactics
by Heartbeat101
Summary: She's not giving up. It's more like taking time to regroup, and restrategize.


A/N: This is getting to be a bit of a bad habit. Kind of like compulsive shoe shopping or forgetting my keys.

Tactics

**unconventional warfare **/

–_**noun: **_warfare that is conducted within enemy lines through guerrilla tactics or subversion, usually supported at least in part by external forces.

* * *

"_They didn't find that Matisse…roughly the size of your box, there."_

"_Is that your way of suggesting that I give up _my _obsession?"_

"_Goodbye, Alex."_

She stares out the window beside her first class seat—the FBI certainly hadn't stinted on expense, but then she supposes Peter Burke was _very_ eager to be rid of her—and broods. She can't stop running that last conversation through her mind; it's like a CD that jams at the same exact spot every time it's played.

Kiss.

_Goodbye, Alex._

So she's off to Venice, like there is nothing wrong with the world, like she _wants_ to be there. Like she hasn't just had her heart shattered into a million tiny pieces by the man she's been in love with for the last five years.

But, of course, she has, and therein lies the difficulty.

In Venice she stays with a second cousin, who is also involved with what has been affectionately termed "the family business." In actuality, Julia is only ever involved in the most basic of operations—drops, pick-ups, and providing a legitimate looking base of operations whenever the occasion calls for one.

In any event, Cousin Julia is only too happy to accept Alex's expensive, surprise gift and keep her mouth shut about having a houseguest.

The house is a lovely Mediterranean styled affair, with white walls and a blue roof and freshly planted bougainvillea. When the last rays of the sun disappear beyond the horizon, and twilight descends, it becomes the kind of place she almost can't believe exists, despite the fact that she's seeing it with her own eyes. Neal would love it, she thinks, then bites her tongue and goes back inside.

Venice is a beautiful city, and Italy is a lovely country, and Europe as a whole has so much more _history_ than the United States. Unlike Neal, she actually did attend college—she majored in European History at Brown, with a minor in Art History. So she should enjoy her time here. A paid vacation, of sorts.

She wonders vaguely why she sounds like she's trying to convince herself of this.

Julia is currently a vegetarian, because, she explains to Alex very seriously, her latest boyfriend is a card carrying member of PETA. Alex goes out to eat. Alone. She gets a plate of linguini and a glass of red wine. Then she goes to the bar and downs shot after shot.

After the fifth round, the barkeeper just hands her the bottle. She takes it, and surveys the room. She drinks the vodka in gulps, not sips, until she's quite positive her approximation of a straight line wouldn't fool a blind person.

She goes home with a tall, dark haired, blue eyed man. It doesn't help.

* * *

"Alex, Alex, Alex." The words carry a faint trace of an English accent.

She looks up from her novel and recognizes one of her more regular clients. He's grinning broadly, a scowling woman clinging possessively to his arm. Her pale eyes focus on Alex and darken.

"Gregory," she smiles, setting aside the book and ignoring the girl, "have a seat."

"Run along to the flower shop, then, Jenny, like you wanted," he tells his girl, reaching absently into his pockets and coming up with a plastic card. She hesitates, then grabs it and, with one last warning look at Alex, flounces off.

"Well finally," Gregory sighs, collapsing into the chair across from Alex. "I haven't gotten a moment's peace since I picked her up from the airport after her vacation to Rio. I might have to send her to Frankfurt next week. Or possibly St. Petersburg—speaking of which, my dear, I heard you were in possession of the music box."

She just smiles at him, unfazed by the rapid change in topic, and says, "I was."

"And?"

She takes a long sip of her drink, then leans back and puts her feet up on the third empty chair. "Now Neal Caffrey has it."

Gregory's face darkens, and he says angrily. "Caffrey? Whatever for?"

"Careful, Greg," she tells him. "Neal pulled the heist almost single handedly. I can't be running from a con man of his talent for the rest of my life." She shrugs, and adds, "The few days I had it brought me some attention, and attention is good in my business. I got what I needed."

Lies, of course, but Gregory has always hated Neal. She's never asked, but she suspects the feeling is mutual.

"Well, I suppose you've always been a practical girl, Alexandra, if nothing else."

She raises an eyebrow. "Nothing else?"

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "Well, perhaps not. You're not still carrying on with Caffrey, then?"

"Carrying on?" She's amused by his turn of phrase, occasionally, and a smile is the easiest mask for her to hide wayward emotion behind.

"You were always too good for him, anyway."

Greg's blond and lanky, with hazel eyes, a longish nose, and far too much money to play with. They get along very well, she thinks, aside from the Neal factor, so why not?

He doesn't say what he's done with his other girl, and she doesn't ask. He's staying at an expensive hotel, in a room that overlooks the canals. Gondolas slice through the water like enormous, elegant swans.

They drink wine and discuss the Russian Revolution until, very suddenly, he leans forward and kisses her. She lets him, in a passive way, but Greg's a sharp man. He pauses, and pulls away.

"You're still thinking about him, aren't you?"

She doesn't ask who he means, and she doesn't deny it. She's only a liar when she needs to be, which is not actually as often as people expect.

Gregory stands and shoves his chair, knocking it to the floor. "_Fucking_ Neal Caffrey!"

She stands and gathers her things to go.

"Or not, actually," Gregory shoots after her, nastily, "And I suppose that's the problem."

_Is that your way of suggesting that I give up my obsession?_

She closes the door very gently behind her, and walks the six miles back to Julia's villa.

* * *

There is a note waiting for her when she wakes up the next morning.

_Alex,_

_Got a few bites for that Matisse. Best offer 23mil. Yokamura._

_- Julia_

She is more than pleased with the offer, not that she lets it show when she speaks with him over the phone. She ends up with 23.5 million for the painting, and he is sending someone to pick it up that evening. She keeps a watchful eye on the box until the carrier comes, repeats her passphrase, and gives fingerprint identification.

Only then does she send him off with a wave and a smile that doesn't go away for the next half hour.

She loves art. It's why she's in this business. But she also loves the thrill of finishing a job, seeing it go smoothly without a hitch.

She wasn't expecting an offer on the Matisse so soon—she thought she'd have to do some advertising before anyone came close to the price she wanted. She wonders, briefly, if someone made some calls for her, and then puts it out of her mind.

_Goodbye, Alex._

* * *

Mozzie calls her after she's been gone three weeks.

"How is the city on stilts?" he asks her. She laughs. They talk about Venice for the better part of an hour, because history happens to be a shared passion of theirs. They met through Neal but, she realizes, somewhere along the way they became friends in their own right. Because Neal is witty and charming, with a face like an angel, but Moz is _funny._ And much more relaxing to be around.

Though, that might be because he doesn't tie her heartstrings into complicated knots through sheer proximity.

So when she asks, "How is New York?" Mozzie understands that she means, "How is Neal?"

"Still recovering, I suppose," he tells her.

"I'm thinking of coming back," she says carefully.

"By all means," Mozzie tells her, "New York is missing you. And you owe me a non-alcoholic beverage of some sort when you return. I will accept a coffee at the locale of my choice."

"I'll find you when I get back," she promises, "and then you'll tell me about that girl."

"What girl?" he says, hastily and very unconvincingly, "There's no girl! Well, to be fair, there are a lot of girls—roughly half of New York city would fall into that category, but—"

"Okay, Mozzie," she chuckles, "have it your way."

"Oh, and Alex?" he says, before she hangs up, "I'm still on your side."

She sits in startled motionlessness, with the dial tone ringing in her ear, for ten minutes.

* * *

New York City is just as loud, crowded, and frantic as when she left. She isn't surprised; cities don't change overnight. Or even in a month, and she's been gone almost that long. People, she's come to believe, are the same way. No one has a fixed and unchangeable mentality; with enough effort and an overabundance of tenacity, she believes anyone can be convinced of anything.

Blitzkrieg was effective for the Germans, but she's considered her difficulties long enough to know that a lightning attack won't bring her anything but heartbreak.

So she'll settle in, and bide her time. Unconventional warfare has always been one of the more effective strategies. She doesn't want to _break_ him, she wants him to stop fighting her. And she's stubborn enough that one stumble—

_Goodbye, Alex._

—won't be enough to put her off for good.

She's smiling as she signs the lease on her new apartment. The sudden (substantial) influx of cash will come in handy, now. She's not going to rush it, not this time. Copenhagen was fun, and she's enjoyed chasing the music box with Neal as a partner, but she's looking for something a little more…permanent.

So she'll bide her time. Let him have his rebound girl, or two, because that's what they are. She's swallowed her pride enough to admit that maybe Kate meant more to him than she first thought. In the mean time she's already begun to tentatively reach out to old contacts; this will occupy her for as long as she needs. Mozzie has already expressed a willingness to help—for a percentage of the profits, of course, because he's not running a charity, either.

The other benefit to regular contact with Mozzie is a regular status report on Neal's state of mind. People often underestimate Mozzie, but he's one of the _best _readers of other people that she knows, and she's made a living working with con men.

And then, when Neal's ready, she'll be back.

* * *

A/N: So, was anyone else a little disappointed with the Alex/Neal kiss? It seemed a little...flat. I mean, I get that he's still pretty hung up on Kate, but still! Oh well.

Because I refuse to believe that they've pushed her off the show. She's much too good a character, and has so much untapped potential. My guess? She'd be pretty useful working with Peter and Diana on figuring out the deal with that music box. All she'd have to do is "borrow" that key back from Neal :)


End file.
